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IdroveHugotothe arena. This was where I felt home. This fight was set in a window factory, the equipment was all pushed to the side. The windows in various stages of completion lined the walls, glinting in the fluorescent lights, showing our own faces back to us like funhouse mirrors.
We were animals.
Hugo sat beside me. He had broken the wrappings with a simple flex of his arms the moment we were out of view of the house. On the flight, he gave me an overview of the mafia, Anton Vasiliev, and his likely courses of action. The man was an encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to underground organized crime.
He had obviously been thinking about this plan for some time, and I seamlessly fell into it.
We sat in front row seats, purchased at the very last minute at an exorbitant price. I had balked at it until Hugo nudged me in the ribs with his elbow and reminded me that I was rich. I could afford four digits for a couple of seats.
Was that how much Alastair had spent to see me at my last fight?
I wore baggy clothes from neck to ankles. My hair was in a bun high on my head, and of course, I wore a low-billed bucket hat, black, with sunglasses underneath. My now customary black lipstick was the only part of my face visible to the passerby.
Morosov came out to the sound of music, his arms raised high. The announcer called his name with gusto and the crowd applauded. His opponent was a dark-skinned Italian man nicknamed “the King”. I was unsure where that particular nickname came from, but it seemed as arbitrary as something like the Vixen.
The King was less than enthused as he came out, raising his arms then dropping them back down again. There was no spark, no killer instinct. He looked like a dog that had been tethered and beaten in a yard.
“He’s been bought off.” I whispered to Hugo, and he grunted in acknowledgment.
“Before we continue, I need to ask,” Hugo said, leaning into me, our shoulders touching, “You were shot and beaten not that long ago. You’ve brought yourself to exhaustion multiple times. Your knuckles are still raw. Are you sure you want to do this?”
I looked at the arena. The octagon. The faces of the crowd in their tailored suits, smirking and ready for their blood sport while in their nice, cocktail attire.
“You’re not at your peak,” he reminded me. There was no insult or malice in his tone. He was just a man laying down the facts. “We can try something else.”
I shook my head.
“No. We’ll do this now.” I told him. “There is no try.”
Not to me, at least. I watched the fight. It lasted three rounds, and Morosov danced around like a moron the whole time. The other guy held his punches, though he did his best to still give a show. Maybe the crowd couldn’t tell. Maybe they were happy to see a person clobbered.
Of course, neither of these men would command a crowd like the Vixen. A freak show in and of herself. A woman fighter in a man’s circuit. But I was counting on that.
When Morosov knocked the King off his feet, he stayed down. Nothing looked wrong with him. The blow wasn’t so hard that the guy couldn’t get back up. His eyes were open, and there weren’t any stars in his eyes. He just… stayed down. The referee counted, and the crowd cheered or booed. The first, because that was their fighter. Probably more bratva men coming to see their boss’ favorite candidate. The latter, because this was an anti-climactic fight.
I looked at Morosov, his arms raised high, the referee congratulating him. I wanted to wipe that smug look off of his face.
“Make sure it takes a while,” Hugo reminded me. “The longer you take, the more likely this will work.”
I grunted as I came to my feet, removing the hat from my head and tossing my sunglasses carelessly to the ground.
I put on my biggest, most dastardly, Brett-like smile and, with a loud, shrill cry, screamed, “Morosov!”
I wasn’t heard over the applause. So I cried his name again. People around me turned to look, their puzzled expressions spurring me on.
“Morosov!” I bellowed, and the room hushed as people looked at the strange woman in black. I started to walk down the aisle, my hands on my hips.
“We have unsettled business, you and I,” I told him, summoning every ounce of arrogance. My steps were heavy, my heels stomping into the ground like I was trying to leave holes in the cement floor.
Morosov squinted his eyes, trying to see me. Recognition was slow to creep into his face. But then again, I already knew he wasn’t that smart.
“Morosov?” I said, bringing up my shoulders, putting my hands to the side, tilting my head, as if I was perplexed. “Don’t you recognize me?”
I looked over to the nearest person, gave him a look that said,can you believe this guy?Then continued walking toward the octagon. Slow. Deliberate. Baiting.
“Your daddy told me to throw the fight, remember?”
The collective gasp in the audience thrilled me.
